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His Mother's Jam
Blueberries touched so long ago
steamed and sealed with wax,
a jar stored on a shelf in darkness
before her mind began
to live in other rooms,
on more familiar streets.
Dust brushed off,
lid opened, berry purple
spread
on uneventful toast,
His words—
"This is the last one."
The knife clinks
against the glass—
two-thirds gone.
How many bites
of sweet jam
have we left?
— Gloria Amescua
January 21, 2001
How to Teach Poetry
Pick up a crockery jar,
though spider veined.
Travel deep into dark woods.
Amid the stones
search for a stream
pouring forth clear
from cracks in the earth.
Lean down where the sun strikes sparks,
break the surface with cupped hands
swish a mouthful
let it linger,
then swallow deep, long draughts,
Splash it on face and eyes.
Fill the jug to brimful,
carry it back to others,
Let them hear the gurgling, smell the
woodbark, touch the stream rippled stones
that slake your thirst.
Then pour the liquid out
to fall in rivulets on dry ground
for they must find a way
to their own secret springs.
— Gloria Amescua
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protection song
(The first three lines of this
poem are a Navaho protection song.
They are to be sung before going into battle.)
now among the alien Gods
with weapons of magic
am i...
...and i am jaguar skinned and raw
felt the palpitations
of the universe beating against my chest
stretched bow and arrow ties
and broke the sky
tears fell
slow and silent
reminded me of the drought
endless wonderings looking for sustenance
you
sustain me
through you
greatness seems reachable
crossed the path of your livid flesh
hungered for your caress
felt the wetness of jungle
the moist wonderings
lead me to the center of you,
flower
sweet scented allure of your embrace
and i was prey
praying for survival
your jungle consumed me
black blood dripping
on jade colored blades
that pierce my skin
my camouflage was useless
i tossed aside
the weakness
of my disguise
and i was jaguar skinned and hunted
in the valley of the shadow
of mother nature's scarlet tongued prayers
breathing heavy
rhythmic
wide eyed
pulsing over drum skinned voices
that carry me
away
away
away!
into your waiting arms
poetry!
— Enrique Cabrera
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ARROYITO DE AGUA
donde fui pastora de las obejas de Papá
Rito de mis recuerdos
¿quién pudiera regresar
a tu verde-azul frescura?
Con buena razón te llamaron
Arroyito de Agua
ya que se sácian de seco
nuestras Rocosas, tan duras.
Planchas cristal, agua dulce
tú, tú, no naces en torpe
al pie de la cordillera
tú en el silencio destilas
el aguamiel de la sierra
Bajas bañando barrancas
tierno tú peinas las zarzas
Vienes fecundo de flores
para doncellas descalzas
Manojo de manantiales
mi arroyo canta Zarzuelas
francos y frescos los prados
que ofrece a mis ovejuelas
Hilacha de riachuelo
bien te recuerda a tu hija
Fuiste mi gota de cielo
y Edén de la zabandija
— Lydia L. Armendariz
Postcard Reading
pa' Agony Sibyl Ortiz
I can still remember the weekend
your mother asked me to baby-sit, so
that she could walk the cobblestone
streets of New Orleans with Styrofoam
cup in hand & teeth yellowed from menthol cigarettes.
You're six now with hair wild as fire
& feet big as adobe bricks.
3 ½ years in my possession & the
only words your mother speaks are
through postcards sent from Washington,
Colorado, Utah. An occasional "I love
you, daughter," or "Hugs and kisses, sweetheart."
& your brown eyes become clean, brilliant
holes of loyalty, of honesty, of loving
a woman a hundred miles away, a
woman in constant struggle with herself,
who sometimes walks through empty hills
on mornings, uncombed for days. In
Apt #115, on a couch grandpa found
near an abandoned Chevy, your legs
swing joy as I read each word. &
despite my hands tough as turtle hide,
I become half man, half woman-a tender
landscape of the heart, a placid stream
of female for a daughter smiling at her
last blue patch of sky.
— Radames Ortiz
"Postcard Reading" appeared in the Headlight Journal, June 2001.
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Aztlan in New York Times
When blankety blank words on Monday
clickety click up railroad tracks
reminding of media frenzies
from muckety mucks
who yackety yack on the tube,
it's time to sing with mariachis
on Mexican TV.
As these words grow big and burly,
forcing me twice from house and home,
twofold draining me of vim and vigor,
double crossing me from safe and sound,
I pray the protein in menudo
will triple my strength to resist.
They cross me over places
I care not to be.
Longing for Cancun.
Cast me on Long Island's Northshore.
Rather be dancing polkas.
Trap me in the Eastern Division
of the NFC.
Pinch my lips when I speak Spanish
even in my own home.
Yank me out of Mexican grooves
to throw me into the past
in New Amsterdam.
Slide me on Buffalo's ice
away from the spices
of southwestern suns.
They are paper pushers
who plaster me under piles of pulp
keeping me from evening's Margarita.
Party poopers
who never bring piñatas to fiestas.
Piano players
too proud to play cantinas
but cheap enough to pilfer
from pill peddlers in border towns.
The puns keep playing
as peace fights in la música
when palabras from Aztlán
cross swords with cross words
in New York times.
— Steve Vera
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